JAMES AND HORACE SMITH. JAMES and HORACE SMITH were born in Lon.don; James on February 10, 1775, Horace on December 31, 1779. James became a solicitor, Horace a stock-broker; and both acquired wealth. James had remarkable conversational powers, and both were genial and witty. When the new Drury Lane Theatre was opened, in October, 1812, the committee of management advertised for an address, to be spoken on the occasion. They received forty-three, and being puzzled to decide which was the best, rejected them all, and employed Lord Byron to write one to order. The brothers Smith seized the occasion to write a number of so-called "rejected addresses," imitating the style and parodying the peculiar hobbies of the most prominent poets of the day. They had considerable trouble in finding a publisher; but at last the book was undertaken by John Miller, a dramatic publisher, who agreed to give the authors half of To the profits. It was immediately and surpris ingly successful, and passed rapidly through numerous editions. The authors received more than £1,000 as their share of the profits. James wrote the imitations of Coleridge, Crabbe, Wordsworth, and Southey; Horace those of Byron, Lewis, Moore, and Scott. In the pref ace to the eighteenth edition they say: the credit of the genus irritabile be it recorded that not one of those whom we had parodied or burlesqued ever betrayed the least soreness on the occasion, or refused to join in the laugh." Scott, pointing to the description of the fire, in the address attributed to him, said: "I certainly must have written this myself, although I forget upon what occasion." James afterward contributed to periodicals, and Horace wrote several novels. James died on December 24, 1839; Horace on July 12, 1849. REJECTED ADDRESSES. ORIGINAL PREFACE. On the 14th of August, 1812, the following advertisement appeared in most of the daily papers : "Rebuilding of Drury-Lane Theatre. "The Committee are desirous of promoting a free and fair competition for an Address to be spoken upon the opening of the Theatre, which will take place on the 10th of October next. They have, therefore, thought fit to announce to the public, that they will be glad to receive any such compositions, addressed to their Secretary, at the Treasury-office, in Drury Lane, on or before the 10th of September, sealed up, with a distinguishing word, number, or motto, on the cover, corresponding with the inscription on a separate sealed paper, containing the name of the author, which will not be opened unless containing the name of the successful candidate." Upon the propriety of this plan, men's minds' were, as they usually are upon matters of moment, much divided. Some thought it a fair promise of the future intention of the Committee to abolish that phalanx of authors who usurp the stage, to the exclusion of a large assortment of dramatic talent blushing unseen in the background; while others contended that the scheme would prevent men of real eminence from descending into an amphitheatre in which all Grub-street (that is to say, all London and Westminster) would be arrayed against them. The event has proved both parties to be in a degree right, and in a degree wrong. One hun dred and twelve Addresses have been sent in, each sealed and signed, and mottoed, as per order," some written by men of great, some by men of little, and some by men of no talent. 66 Many of the public prints have censured the taste of the Committee, in thus contracting for Addresses as they would for nails-by the gross; but it is surprising that none should have censured their temerity. One hundred and eleven of the Addresses must, of course, be unsuccess ful to each of the authors, thus infallibly classed with the genus irritabile, it would be very hard to deny six stanch friends, who consider his the best of all possible Addresses, and whose tongues will be as ready to laud him as to hiss his adversary. These, with the potent aid of the bard himself, make seven foes per address; and thus will be created seven hundred and seventy-seven implacable auditors, prepared to condemn the strains of Apollo himself-a band of adversaries which no prudent manager would think of exasperating. But, leaving the Committee to encounter the responsibility they have incurred, the public have at least to thank them for ascertaining and establishing one point, which might other wise have admitted of controversy. When it is considered that many amateur writers have been discouraged from becoming competitors, and that few, if any, of the professional authors can afford to write for nothing, and, of course, have not been candidates for the honorary prize at Drury Lane, we may confidently pronounce that, as far as regards number, the present is undoubtedly the Augustan age of English poetry. Whether or not this distinction will be extended to the quality of its productions, must be decided at the tribunal of posterity; though the natural anxiety of our authors on this score ought to be considerably diminished when they reflect how few will, in all probability, be had up for judgment. It is not necessary for the editor to mention the manner in which he became possessed of this "fair sample of the present state of poetry in Great Britain." It was his first intention to publish the whole; but a little reflection convinced him that, by so doing, he might depress the good, without elevating the bad. He has therefore culled what had the appearance of flowers, from what possessed the reality of weeds, and is extremely sorry that, in so doing, he has diminished his collection to twenty-one. Those which he has rejected may possibly make their appearance in a separate volume, or they may be admitted as volunteers in the files of some of the newspapers; or, at all events, they are sure of being received among the awkward squad of the magazines. In general, they bear a close resemblance to each other; thirty of them contain extravagant compliments to the immortal Wellington and the indefatigable Whitbread; and, as the last-mentioned gentle. man is said to dislike praise in the exact proportion in which he deserves it, these laudatory writers have probably been only building a wall against which they might run their own heads. The editor here begs leave to advance a few words in behalf of that useful and much-abused bird the Phoenix; and in so doing, he is biassed by no partiality, as he assures the reader he not only never saw one, but (mirabile dictu!) never caged one, in a simile, in the whole course of his life. Not less than sixty-nine of the competitors have invoked the aid of this native of Arabia; but as, from their manner of using him after they had caught him, he does not by any means appear to have been a native of Arabia Feliz, the editor has left the proprietors to treat with Mr. Polito, and refused to receive this rara avis, or black swan, into the present collection. One exception occurs, in which the admirable treatment of this feathered incombus. tible entitles the author to great praise: that Address has been preserved, and in the ensuing pages takes the lead, to which its dignity entitles it. Perhaps the reason why several of the subjoined productions of the MUSE LONDINENSES have failed of selection, may be discovered in their being penned in a metre unusual upon occasions of this sort, and in their not being written with that attention to stage effect, the want of which, like want of manners in the concerns of life, is more prejudicial than a deficiency of talent. There is an art of writing for the theatre, technically called touch and go, which is indispensable when we consider the small quantum of patience which so motley an assemblage as a London audience can be expected to afford. All the contributors have been very exact in sending their initials and mottoes. Those belonging to the present collection have been carefully preserved, and each has been affixed to its respective poem. The letters that accompanied the Addresses having been honorably destroyed unopened, it is impossible to state the real authors with any certainty; but the ingenious reader, after comparing the initials with the motto, and both with the poem, may form his own conclusions. The Editor does not anticipate any disapprobation from thus giving publicity to a small portion of the Rejected Addresses; for unless he is widely mistaken in assigning the respective authors, the fame of each individual is established on much too firm a basis to be shaken by so trifling and evanescent a publication as the present: -neque ego illi detrahere ausim Hærentem capiti multâ cum laude coronam. Of the numerous pieces already sent to the committee for performance, he has only availed himself of three vocal travesties, which he has selected, not for their merit, but simply for their brevity. Above one hundred spectacles, melodramas, operas, and pantomimes, have been transmitted, besides the two first acts of one legitimate comedy. Some of these evince considerable smartness of manual dialogue, and several brilliant repartees of chairs, tables, and other inanimate wits; but the authors seem to have forgotten that in the new Drury Lane the audience can hear as well as see. Of late our theatres have been so constructed that John Bull has been compelled to have very long ears, or none at all; to keep them dangling about his skull like discarded servants, while his eyes were gazing at pieballs and elephants, or else to stretch them out to an asinine length to catch the congenial sound of braying trumpets. An auricular revolution is, we trust, about to take place; and as many people have been much puzzled to define the meaning of the new era, of which we have heard so much, we venture to pronounce that, as far as regards Drury-Lane Theatre, the new era means the reign of ears. If the past affords any pledge for the future, we may confidently expect from the Committee of that House everything that can be accomplished by the union of taste and assiduity. But while they ponder, up the pot-lid flies, Fledged, beak'd, and claw'd, alive they see him rise To heaven, and caw defiance in the skies. Breaks through his lines, and leaves his boasted Expiring on the plain without his arm on; Some years ago he pounced with deadly glee on theon; Nay, still unsated, in a coat of flames, Then buzzing on through ether with a wild hum, Who burnt (confound his soul!) the houses twain Of Covent Garden and of Drury Lane? WILLIAM THOMAS FITZGERALD. Quite cross, a bit of string I beg, And bang, with might and main, If he's to melt, all scalding hot, WILLIAM Wordsworth. Jack and Nancy, as it was afterward remarked to the authors, are here made to come into the world at periods not sufficiently remote. The writers were then bachelors. The blunder, notwithstanding, remains unrectified. The reader of poetry is always dissatisfied with emendations; they sound discordantly upon the ear, like a modern song, by Bishop or Braham, introduced in Love in a Village. Aunt Hannah heard the window break, And cried, "O naughty Nancy Lake, Thus to distress your aunt: No Drury-Lane for you to-day!" And while papa said, "Pooh, she may!" Mamma said, "No, she sha'n't!" Well, after many a sad reproach, And trotted down the street, I saw them go: one horse was blind, The tails of both hung down behind, Their shoes were on their feet. The chaise in which poor brother Bill Used to be drawn to Pentonville, Stood in the lumber-room: I wiped the dust from off the top, While Molly mopped it with a mop, And brushed it with a broom. My uncle's porter, Samuel Hughes, Came in at six to black the shoes, (I always talk to Sam :) So what does he, but takes, and drags Me in the chaise along the flags, And leaves me where I am. My father's walls are made of brick, But not so tall and not so thick As these; and, goodness me! My father's beams are made of wood, But never, never half so good As those that now I see. What a large floor! 'tis like a town! Won't hide it, I'll be bound; They keep them on the ground, At first I caught hold of the wing, um bob, the prompter man, "You've only got to curtsy, whisper, hold your chin up, laugh, and lisp, And then you're sure to take: I've known the day when brats, not quite Thirteen, got fifty pounds a night; Then why not Nancy Lake? But while I'm speaking, where's papa? And where's my aunt? and where's mamma? Where 's Jack? Oh, there they sit! And now, good gentlefolks, I go I curtsy like a pretty miss, AN ADDRESS WITHOUT A PHŒNIX. BY S. T. P.* "This was looked for at your hand, and this was balked." What you Will. WHAT stately vision mocks my waking sense? Friends whose kind looks, retraced with proud delight, Endear the past, and make the future bright: Yes, generous patrons, your returning smile Blesses our toils, and consecrates our pile. When last we met, Fate's unrelenting hand Already grasped the devastating brand; Slow crept the silent flame, ensnared its prize, Then burst resistless to the astonished skies. The glowing walls, disrobed of scenic pride, In trembling conflict stemmed the burning tide, Till crackling, blazing, rocking to its fall, Down rushed the thundering roof, and buried all! Where late the sister Muses sweetly sung, And raptured thousands on their music hung, Where Wit and Wisdom shone, by Beauty graced, Sat lonely Silence, empress of the waste; More magic wonders than Amphion's lays, Guided by you, our earnest aims presume Oh! may we still, to sense and nature true, Still be its moral tendency the same, One of us had written a genuine Address for the occasion, which was sent to the Committee, and shared the fate it merited, in being rejected. To swell the bulk, or rather to diminish the tenuity of our little work, we added it to the Imitations: and prefixing the initials of S. T. P. for the purpose of puzzling the critics, were not a little amused, in the sequel, by the many guesses and conjectures into which we had ensnared some of our read ers. |